


And after that the dark

by Acephalous



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, But also not quite canon compliant, Character Study, M/M, Not A Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22580422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acephalous/pseuds/Acephalous
Summary: “The realization is settling into him, that he is going to die out here.”
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 10
Kudos: 51
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	And after that the dark

**Author's Note:**

> For my Terror Bingo Square: 'Cuddling for Warmth'

James lies curled into his sack on the rocky ground, and tries to convince his body to sleep. Despite all the grinding exhaustion from the day’s march, sleep eludes him, he’s too cold, and there’s a worsening ache settled deep into all his joints. Instead of sleeping, he stares blankly at the dirtied fabric of the tent, tries not to let his thoughts drop into self-pity. There’s something strange about this sort of suffering, in the past he’d found comfort in the knowledge that there was something heroic in his pain, something out of the ordinary. But now, in this place, there is nothing particularly unique in his misery, it is the very same suffering that every other man is feeling or will feel very soon, as the scurvy breaks them apart. It is a common-place agony, which somehow makes it harder to bear. 

He shifts slightly to try to ease the discomfort in his hip, and the movement sends a sharp jolt of pain through the reopening wound in his side. Wryly, he thinks that he does have the distinction of being the only man here with bullet holes in him. At least he hopes so. There’s something distinctly ridiculous about being brought down by something he’s always used as an example of his fortitude, and his ability to survive against the odds. 

The realization is settling into him, that he is going to die out here. He knows he is running himself down to the last reserves of his strength, and he suspects it is only a matter of time before an infection sets into his old wounds. It is not the sort of worry he can confide in anyone. Not now, when they are all dying in one way or another. What he needs is as obvious as it is unattainable: fresh food, proper rest, nothing that is going to be found in this place. And so, since there is no other alternative, he will simply carry on.

***

If James sleeps that night it is only in short snatches of time, and he is lying awake, eyes focused on nothing, when the camp begins to stir. He gives himself the space of a few seconds to gather himself together, before he readies himself for another day.

“You are their Captain,” he reminds himself, in a whisper, “Damn well act like it.” 

When he steps out of his tent, the camp is being packed away, and in the midst of the activity is Francis. He’s helping to sort the things that will be discarded here, and what absolutely essential items they will drag forward. Francis is smiling at the men, his voice gentle, soothing their fears at leaving these things behind: these remaining bits of furniture, cutlery, half the tents, all the sad scraps they’ve dragged this far, like they were necessary. It feels perverse to have the crates of tins set carefully in the smaller pile of things they will bring onwards, even though those tins are killing them all by degrees. 

As he approaches the hub of activity, James can see that Francis is succeeding in cheering the men, can tell by the set of their shoulders, the way they hold themselves with renewed resolve. He marvels again at the way that Francis has grown stronger from being worn away out here, like anything not kind and strong in him has been broken away, and all that is left is the best kind of man. Strange how the same events can act on different men: James feels like all they’ve suffered has carved him to the bone, and left very little of him behind. But still there his duty that needs to be done. No escape from that, not until the bitter end. 

Francis meets his eye, and comes to his side. Nods him a little further away from the other men. 

Once they’re out of earshot, Francis says, in a low voice: “We may need to reduce rations even further. I’m starting to doubt we’ll find game on this whole damn island. We’ll have to see how much further we can stretch the tins.” 

They both know the answer to how much further. Have calculated and re-calculated it, and watched their hopes dwindle and dwindle, with each passing day. James just turns and looks at him, not sure what is left to say. There is something exhausted and afraid in Francis’ eyes, something normally carefully hidden, but Francis seems to find resolve in whatever he sees in James’ face, because he nods, and squares his shoulders. 

“Right.” Francis says, “We’ll do what needs to be done. Back to it.”

James watches him step back to the men. There’s a fleeting moment when he thinks about calling Francis back to him, about telling him of his reopened injuries. But he hesitates, thinking of the way Francis had looked to him to steady himself. Telling him it will do no good, so he keeps quiet as Francis walks away. 

After a moment he follows Francis back to the camp. He moves to help one of the men who is struggling with little strength to carry the canvas of one of the tents to a boat. Stoops to speak gently to one of the sick, offering a word of encouragement. When the boats are repacked with their new, lighter loads, he gets himself back into his harness, starts to haul again. Doesn’t look back at what they are leaving behind on the rocks. 

***

That night, he and Francis share a tent. With the reduced number of tents, most of the men are packed much tighter than two to a tent. The air is bitterly cold, and towards the end of the day the wind had whipped up, and now it howls over the stones, with a noise like dozens of garbled voices, all shrieking at once. The wind tears at the canvas of the tent, with a shocking level of violence, making sleep even more difficult than usual. James had gone into his sack feeling almost warm, for the first time in longer than he cares to remember. He had told himself it was from the exertion of hauling and setting camp. Ignores the voice in his head that suggested it was the start of a fever setting into his wounds. Either way the feeling was fleeting, and now he’s freezing.

Behind him he hears Francis enter the tent, and settle into his own sack. There is a period of silence, though James suspects from the way he is breathing that Francis is still awake. After several minutes Francis curses, then sits up.

“Too damn cold for this.” He says, “Move over, I can hear your teeth chattering.”

He crawls into the sack with James, and they arrange themselves with Francis’ chest to James’ back. He jostles the reopened wound in James’ arm, as he draws closer, and James can’t prevent the bitten off noise of pain he makes. Francis freezes. 

“My joints ache, it’s moved into my elbows now.” James lies to him.

Francis moves very carefully after that, presses himself up against James’ back. He’s warm, for which James’ is grateful. Gradually James’ shivering subsides. 

“We’ll find game soon.” Francis tells him, assuredly. “We’ll all be able to regain our strength.”

James makes a noise of agreement, but he knows he’s not getting out of this now. Francis will, with some of the men, that he knows with certainty. That makes his duty very simple: pull his weight, get them a bit further, give them every chance. Even if what is left of his strength only helps them get a few extra miles, that might be all the difference. Their survival is going to be by the thinnest of margins, and all that is left for him to do is see this out, as far as he is able.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from ‘Crossing the Bar’ by Alfred Lord Tennyson


End file.
